06/04/2016

I have a memory, living fiercely inside of me, that I frequently call on of listening to wolf howl at the edge of a wild lake in Minnesota's remote northern wilderness. I was camping with my three children, alone, surrounded by over one million acres of primordial woods and water. My daughters, then aged 3 and 6, were asleep and dreaming in our tent of nylon, while my son, 14 at the time, and I sat by the warmth of a fire under a tent of stars. The fire crackled and the waves lapped and we were having the kind of conversation you can really only have with your teen son when the fire glow and the moon glow conspire to make you more vulnerable and open. And, so, we breathed our words in and out to each other, next to that fire. At the far reach of the campfire's light, the walls of the tent were breathing in and out from the night breeze, like the soft breathing bodies of the little ones inside. Somewhere on the cobalt lake a loon wailed to her mate; bat wings stroked the inky black of the sky; and the night could not have gotten any better...until it did.

I threw my head back and closed my eyes to feel the light of the moon on my face when I heard it. The first lines of a verse from the choir of wolves. The sound of wolf howl comes in through your ears, but it settles in your belly. It fills you, roundly and soundly. It is heard there, it is felt there, and it lives there forever after. At your core. In your belly. All the hairs on the back of your neck stand at attention, like one thousand centuries of ancestors, or more, who all knew the cry of the wolf before you, and who stood alert at its sound. It is in your DNA that your hairs will stand, that you will feel the vibrational resonance of their calls in your belly. We have not evolved far enough to avoid it. Of course we haven't! There I was, a mother and her young in the depths of an ancient wilderness where somewhere, out there, a wolf pack howled. It ignited my fear receptors, it activated my protective instinct, but it also reassured me that the wild is still there. The wolf is in the woods, and I am in the woods, too. And, there I belong. It reaffirmed a dream I have long had, that one day I would live among Canis lupis, that one day I would know intimately the song of the wolf.

Image from the Internet

Another dream that is as old as my time, is to camp among the wolves of Isle Royale. Located less than 15 miles from the shores of Minnesota and Canada, in the cold waters of Lake Superior, Isle Royale is an island 45 miles long and 9 miles wide, surrounded by 450 smaller islands that make up the Isle Royale National Park. At one time, lynx dominated the island, preying on caribou and snowshoe hares. Then humans decimated them all, save for a few hares, making the coyote the primary predator. Coyotes shared the island with red foxes, ermine, mink, muskrats, and squirrels. Several species of bats ruled the night. Garter snakes, redbelly snakes, painted turtles, frogs, and salamanders made their homes in the lowlands of the island. And then came the moose.

The first Moose (Alces alces) swam across the waters of Lake Superior from Minnesota in the early 1900's. They found plentiful food and safety on their new island home, and were thriving there. Winters tended to be harsher, then, and in 1949 a pair of wolves crossed an ice bridge that had formed, from Ontario, changing the way of life for all on the island. This began the fight for life and balance on Isle Royale.

Photograph by Rolf Peterson

In the decades that followed ecologists have conducted a long-term study of the predator-prey system, between moose and the eastern timber wolves. There is a cyclical relationship between the two animals: as the moose increase in population, so do the wolves. Eventually, the wolves kill too many moose and begin to starve and lower their reproductive rates, the scales of balance always moving in a delicate dance. When initially studied in 1958, many researchers believed the two species would eventually reach a population equilibrium (which is believed to be about twenty-five wolves, and 1,500 moose). They have not yet shown any sign of settling into one, instead tending to fluctuate unpredictably. The most dramatic decrease in the wolf population occurred when the canine parvovirus was spread to the wolves on the island, introduced by a park visitor's dog (breaking the rules of the national park) in 1980 or 1981, causing a crash in the population. Climate change has proven to be, perhaps, even more catastrophic, as it has meant warmer winters, and less opportunities for new wolves, and their fresh bloodlines, to cross ice bridges to the island. By 2015, the moose were at about 2/3 of their historical maximum, where as the wolf population was nearly extinct with only three severely inbred wolves present. At this time, there is a heated debate as to whether humans should intervene. Introduce more wolves to the island, thus strengthening the gene pool...or, let the wolves die, ending their existence in that place. There are those who say we shouldn't interfere, as though humans haven't been doing just that, to the mortal peril of the wolves, since antiquity. We are hesitant to intervene to help the wolves, but not to destroy them. What about the human's infected dog? What about what human's have greatly contributed to climate change? What about even long before that? From the time of our ancestors we have been hunting and poisoning them until near extinction.

"Ghost Wolf Fever Dream", detail

Take Wolf's Bane (Acontinum nepellus), under the government of Saturn, and the element of Water. Also known as Aconite, Leopard's Bane, Monkshood, Thor's Hat, and others, though I almost always call it Wolf's Bane. Used magically for invisibility and protection. Used to ward off werewolves, and also to cure them. But, poisonous. All parts of the plant, extremely so. Most known, historically, as a means of killing wolves, poisoning them with aconite-tainted meat. I have a stand of this plant growing in a poison garden. I have often dreamt of her, and she has been present in all of my Ghost Wolf dreams. But it is the lost wolves who haunt me. My dreams are of the lost wolves of Isle Royale. And beyond. Beyond the big, cold lake. Beyond even the landscapes we inhabit. Into myth. Their souls come in through my mind's eye, at night, and leave me tossing and turning and in a feverish sweat. Tumbling into a night panic over the loss of wolves. So, I carve sigils. I tie knots for protection. You see, I need wolves. I need to live in a world that is ripe with dens, and packs, and the infinite wisdom and mystery in the eye of an Alpha. I need to live in a world where the haunting is in the howl that comes in through your ears, but settles in your belly, when the moon glow conspires to make you more vulnerable and open.

"Ghost Wold Fever Dream", detail

"Ghost Wolf Fever Dream", detail

Among wolves, no matter how sick, no matter how cornered, no matter how alone, afraid or weakened, the wolf will continue. She will lope, even with a broken leg. She will strenuously outwait, outwit, outrun and outlast whatever is bedeviling her. She will put her all in taking breath after breath. The hallmark of the wild nature is that it goes on.

06/01/2016

I was recently asked by the artists-extraordinaire-power-couple, Lauren Levato Coyne and Rory Coyne, to show a drawing at their gallery space, Sidetracked Studio, in the small-works invitational entitled, "Swarm". I was thrilled because not only am I a fan of their art, I am a fan of what they are doing at Sidetracked. And, I was to find that I will be hanging in great company, surrounded by some pretty spectacular works by some really fantastic artists!

Also, it didn't hurt that I was already in the sketching phase of a drawing that I thought would work well. Synchronicity!

The details from the duo, themselves:

Sidetracked Studio is proud to present “Swarm," a small works exhibition. The word can be defined in different ways - from an act of aggression/protection to simply a group of animals - and we thought it high time to mount our own swarm via artists interpreting the theme. This exhibit is a wonderful spectacle of highly crafted works that are mostly no larger than fifteen inches, and an installation made of smaller components by the artists to make one collaborative piece, or swarm.

05/19/2016

Not long ago I was asked to participate in the Twin Rivers Council for the Arts first ever invitational arts exhibition, entitled, "Ode to Water". That theme was chosen for this special event in order to recognize the importance of water in all of our lives. I have a deep spiritual relationship with the rivers around my home, and felt fortunate to be able to honor them, in this way. Of course I accepted. I knew immediately that I would do a drawing that would portray my connection to the spirits of the rivers. The way those spirits gift me with their charms.

"Charms From the Dark Waters of a River Spirit", graphite

For this post I wanted to write about our connection, to try and convey how tightly bound together the rivers and I are to one another. I have done so before on this blog, here, here and here. I have written about my love and our relationship other places, as well, and decided to simply share them in this space. I went back a few years. You will see, my feelings have not diminished. They keep moving along, with me floating in the middle, just like a feather on the current. Flowing through life, together, the rivers and I.

May 18th, 2013

The river was everything I needed it to be, with all of the wild things, that are the cast of characters, in place. One day I will ask to be dropped on a sandbar, and I swear, I may never be heard from again. I will just dissolve into the moss and mud. That promise is what keeps me sane.

August 10th, 2013

About to hit the river. Happy sunset is still 5 hours away (yay, summer!), but should the perfect sandbar for a riverside fire appear, I'll be happily breathing river air even later than that! Life is beautiful, and if you aren't sure of that, find yourself a river.

May 22nd, 2014 :

Spoiled myself, and the hound, this morning, by staying longer than usual at the river, totally ignoring all sense of responsibility. It was worth it. My ears were filled with the screams of eagles, and the guttural throat songs of a million frogs singing in unison (always reminds me of the Tuvan throat singers!). My vision shifting continuously between the "bigger picture" and the earth directly in front of my feet, where bright garter snakes quickly slithered away from the impending crush of my boots (their interest in frog song even more piqued than mine!), and the snails who did not (that horrific crunch!). Passed probably half a dozen wood ticks, who stood on tip toe, arms reaching out eagerly, hopefully, for a piece of me from ferns and nettles that grew probably half a foot overnight. Found the perfect fallen tree, with the perfect pitch to the river's edge, in the perfect mix of sunshine and pungent river breeze, climbing up, lying down, closing eyes, and absorbing it all into every pore. Drifting between willing Spirit in, and remembering it's always been there, while the dog looked out over the water, watching over me, until we had been there long enough the deer forgot we'd ever existed, allowing us the chance to scare a few up on our walk back. Saturday we'll spend the whole day *on* the river, lazy drifting, but for now responsibility calls me back to a lot of work in the studio, the garden, and the kitchen (throwing in a school play for good measure). Still, every single part of me, except my physical body, is already flowing with that current.

June 15th, 2014:

What a great day, and I am happy to report, a lovely Father's Day for my husband. Three lavish meals and a day spent mostly on the river, the same river where my Dad's ashes mingle with the sediment in its depths. Eagles, herons, red-tailed hawks, turtles, deer, an owl, a muskrat, two goofy knuckleheads, a hot hubbie, and a species of great happiness...me. It was a scene of summertime perfection, and I marvel at a life where my hair smells of wood smoke more days than it doesn't, and despite my best scrubbing efforts, my feet are always stained from too much barefoot gardening. No one here will remember the date, or the day, as they all blur into one another, and we like it that way. On the river we know trees intimately that, perhaps, no one else has ever acknowledged, and we are free to do the crazy things we do, as a family, with no one else around to witness, except those trees, and those creatures, but they aren't telling any of our secrets.

August 2nd, 2014:

It's been wonderful spending a relaxing morning, pencil in hand - both writing and drawing - after a late night of merrymaking. Now, picnicking essentials packed, it's time to hit the river! Giddy about the prospect of a long day with the eagles and turtles; letting my thoughts get lost in the tangles of tree roots that hang down the steep banks; leaving zig-zagged tracks, next to those of deer and turkeys, down hot stretches of sand bars. I never want to leave, and I'm not even there, yet!!

September 11th, 2014:

Hello, River. It's been nearly two weeks. The longest we've been apart in years (and years). You've changed, ever so subtly, which happens when there is an absence. Relationships of love require intention, connection, attention, and presence. Without it, we look and sound slightly foreign to one another, a balance only righted by re-commitment. Take heart, I did not forsake your current and flow for the sedentary water bodies of the Far North lakes. That was a fling that cannot compare to our four decade love affair. Not that the wilderness lakes didn't offer up challenge (like lying awake in the hours before dawn- the morning we are to paddle and portage several lakes back out to civilization- listening to the wind gusts pummel our camp. Envisioning the breaking waves and white caps that wind is creating. Not wanting to wake everyone with a flashlight, so imagining the map in my mind, picking a new route with less paddling and more portaging, as any mother or sane person would do. Convincing the husband of the plan over coffee as we survey the actual breaking waves and whitecaps in the first light of day. We made it out, high and dry!), but challenges that lure you deeper into fear aren't as thrilling, to me, as the ones that lure me deeper into you. I love the obstacles nature provides to detract most people from your most intimate places. I am not most people. I will scramble over and through your mounds of driftwood, acquiring scratches on my cheek and arms, mud and deer shit in my boot tread, burrs in my hair, to break through the thick underbrush and stand at your edge. A place with ever-changing tracks, but never those of another human. To linger, there, in the secret garden of the River. Happy the old dog is finally old enough to tolerate my lingering. An eagle screams from a tree. I don't even look, content just to know it's there. Geese rally the troops for the long formation flight to come. My head doesn't move in their direction. A buck snaps a stick in the woods behind me, but I only have eyes for the River. Hypnotized by sunlight on its surface, and on the ripples made by bugs, fish, and the stones I cast after whispering prayers into them as offerings. We have a lot of catching up to do, the River and I, but we are well on our way. Love is like that...

September 28th, 2014:

Sit at the edge of the river. Let your fingertip break the current and make rings on her surface. Let your heartbeat slow to her rhythm and join it. Let your hair tangle in the breeze of her air. Let your toes dig deep into the cool sand and stones, and for your faithful worship, She will reward you.

New hag stone (adder stone, witch's stone) Magic abounds.

September 29th, 2014:

Daydreaming about yesterday, and the hours spent on the river, just my husband and me, bidding adieu to all that the river is. The last hurrah of the year. The days will be shorter, colder, and busier, as we prepare for winter, like the denizens of the place who shared the day with us. There were hawks and owls and buzzards and ducks of every feather. White egrets and blue herons shared sand bars, and the trees and sky were filled with so many eagles we lost count. There were busy beavers swimming against the current and does in the shadows of the trees. All of us enjoying the last warm days of what some call an Indian Summer. Stopping on sand bars, we walked barefoot, holding hands as we explored, looking for bones and taking photos of the different tracks in the sand, including our own. I sat on logs of driftwood, writing, giving thanks, and soaking up vitamin D for the darker days ahead. Finally, we knew we had lingered too long when the sun fell behind the trees and my teeth started chattering. We took back to the river, heading for home. The hubby literally gave me the shirt off his warm, generous, gorgeous back, and we floated in silence, captivated by the silhouette of geese below a tiny sliver of moon, their bellies glowing like autumn leaves from the setting sun.

July 26th, 2015:

It was *this* kind of day! My skin is still absorbing an excess of vitamin D, and my heart is still processing the beauty of the eagles and the trees, all while my mind relives every bend of the river that, from here, flows north. The River Witch is in love.

August 3rd, 2015:

I woke up this morning with a stretch and appreciation for the cool morning air. I sat to meditate, and noticed a large pea-sized, round blob of dried river mud I had missed the day before, when I had rinsed the sand and mud one last time before leaving the river. We got home late, and I had a velvety-smooth mushroom soup to finish, and bread to slice; a family to feed. I never noticed it as I went about my evening, which turned into night. It went undetected as I slid between sheets and drifted off to sleep, swiftly, like the river drifts when she's high. I dreamt of the river. Now I sit, cross-legged, prayerful, with the remnants of the river on me; cracked like the mud on the dry banks; under a finger that traces it like a line on a map back to the memory. I am always at the river, some part of me. I never fully leave. And, now, I guess, a part of the river wants to stay with me, in kind.

Mother's Day, 2016:

If you ask me what I would want to do on a day dedicated to me, I would always say, "Go to the River". And, so we do. Up early on a cloudless, blue sky morning, we packed breakfast and thermoses of coffee and cocoa, and hiked off. We skirted some backwater, riling sentinel geese and sending mallards flying. We climbed the hill of old bur oaks, startling a Great Horned Owl fledgling from a branch, and then being startled ourselves by its sibling, who flew just a short way to a rise and landed in the grass, winking and blinking slowly at us as we hiked by. Violet bounded through the tall grass as I led my little family to a high limestone ridge above the river, side-stepping a pair of Northern Water snakes and the largest Milk snake I have ever seen; all sunning themselves on flat stones. Once on the ridge, we sat on ancient, flat-topped glacial boulders protruding from the hillside, and watched as eagles rose and dipped in the sky between us, and the river below. We laughed, we ate, we picked ticks off of each other all simian-like, and pretty much basked in the arms of a wild place, and the arms of the most familiar and comfortable place. The family place. Until Violet took off after two coyotes that were loping toward her, and we had to yell and run and scare them off! Picnic over! So, I looked over my shoulder at the river, felt my heart-stings pulled toward her, and said good-bye. Mother's Day. Here I am surrounded by the family I love and nurture. Here we all are: human, goose, duck, owl, snake, and coyote, surrounding the River Mother who loves and nurtures us. It was a good day.

The exhibition will run May 19-June 15, 2016, with a reception on Thursday, May 19 from 5-8pm, at the Emy Frentz Gallery, here in Mankato, a town sitting at the bend of the river.

03/19/2016

In the middle of a meadow stood the vardo, as colorful, rooted, yet feral as wildflowers. Above it, the first light of the day made cracks in the periwinkle of the ending night, and then worked its way in through the cracks in the vardo windows, made by the blowing and swaying curtains. We always slept with the windows open, the Sister Witch, and I, to let in the sounds of the night. Owl screech and fox scream. Howling wind and cicada whine. Before those open windows were hung bells, strings of bones, and charms for protection, to keep the dark spirits out.

When that morning light crept over the the tops of the elms and old oaks in the East, and found my face where I lie sleeping, I would turn away from it, my head still lost in dreaming. But not the Sister Witch, who would always rise early. This was our pattern, her lighting the fires of the new day, and me dousing the flames at the close of it. So she would wake, and stir, and step outside where the mists rose off the meadow grasses, under the sun and morning moon, and strike her flint to light our fire. She would put the coffee pot on the edge of the burning sticks, and as the alchemical process between water and grounds worked its magic, I would rise to join her. Our mornings were woodsmoke and feathers, bone pipes and amber. Sunlight peering through the beveled glass and pressed flowers of the vardo's windows, casting rainbow prisms that danced and bounced around us, alighting upon our cheeks and hair. The day would unfold into dusty bare toes tracing sigils in the dirt as bells jingled against ankle bones, below the frayed hem of skirts. Spirits would be consulted. Bones would be thrown upon wild boar skins. Cards would be read as incense swirled. And I would divine by lithomancy, thirteen stones telling me my future. Frangipani and sandalwood warmed on the pulse points over veins where wildness flowed, the silken skin of youth all that stood between us witches and our blood magic. Herbs would be harvested by the signs, tied in red woolen yarn we had spun and dyed ourselves. A pinch of this one, a sprig of that, ground with a mortar and pestle cupped in the palm, while songs and chants were whispered over them. All while the sun journeyed in an arch overhead, to the elms and old oaks in the West.

Then, night would begin her descent, pushing down the coral, rose, and purple of the sunset behind the far hills. Bats would swoop overhead, the flap of their wings feeling to the ears like black leather fringe feels to the flesh. Around the fire, with light and shadow playing across our faces, the Sister Witch would pluck and strum the mandolin, while silver ribbon plumes of smoke drifted ever higher from our fire, under shooting stars and the Dippers, big and small. I would stir the pot of supper, and refill our goblets with crimson wine, and we would toast the Spirits of divinity and blood, while spectral ancestors raced across the sky on the dark backs of wild horse ghost clouds. At the last, the Sister Witch would climb into the alcove, while I extinguished the flames in the hissing, popping, sputtering song of water, smoke, and ember.

There was magic in that vardo. Magic we created by spell, hex, and talisman. Magic we created by art, story, and song. The magic of sisterhood. Eventually the wildflower colors of paint chipped and peeled. The red spokes broke on the wheels. The undercarriage sagged. We were making different magic, and we went to take it out into the world, away from the meadow, and the fire, and the bat filled night. We went our separate ways, untying the silk scarves that had bound us. We wandered until long silver roots grew out from our toes and burrowed deep into the soft soil, tethering us in new lands; me in the valley of a river, the Sister Witch atop a high hill. Babies grew in our wombs, settled on our hips, nursed at our breasts, and clung to our necks. Our powers were never more potent, more powerful. We still worked with stones, spells, and spirits, separately, though we spoke often through crows, and starlight. If I send a message down a swirling stream, the Sister Witch will answer it. If she casts a message into the summer winds, it will always find me. This is the way of it.

The vardo no longer exists. It broke down completely and returned its magic to the belly of the land. If you could wander that spot you would faintly hear mandolin, ankle bells, and incantations upon the wind. Where it once stood now bloom the most beautiful flowers, the very colors of the vardo, which push their way up through the hallowed earth each spring, past the bells, strings of bones, and charms that remain, slowly sinking, sinking, back into the grass of the meadow.

03/17/2016

My Irish Granny was a seanchaí, a storyteller in the esteemed tradition that is the Irish storyteller. A proud keeper of oral tradition, she was. In olden days, there were professional storytellers, divided into well-defined ranks - ollaimh (professors), filí (poets), baird (bards), and seanchaithe (historians, storytellers). While the professors, poets, and bards were held in high regard among those of high standing, it was the seanchaí that were revered by the common people. Many were itinerant, and traveled over wood, moss, and dusty road to take food and temporary shelter in the homes of those to whom they provided their valuable entertainment, gathering around peat fires and regaling the inhabitants, and their neighbors, with stories of old. Others, like my Granny, were settled, and became known as the "village storyteller". The people came to sit beside her hearth, as Granny stooped to turn potato cakes cooking on stones over a turf fire, while turning tales that had never lived on a page.

She would recount the important events from the past in historical legends. Tell local legends, closely connected with a particular place and how it got its name or what happened there. There were personal legends that dealt with real people, and religious legends, dealing with the life of Christ or the saints. In the dark hours of night, with only the light from the peat fire glowing, she would whisper the tales of supernatural legends, her shadow dancing across the stone and mud walls of her home, while she told of eerie experiences or supernatural beings such as spirits, fairies, and ghosts; stories of dreams coming true, of death omens and warnings.

But her favorites were stories of the most legendary characters in Irish mythology. Like Cú Chulainn, called the Hound of Ulster after killing Culann's fierce guard-dog in self-defense, and offering to take its place until a replacement could be reared. And, who at the age of seventeen, defended Ulster single-handedly against the armies of Queen Medb of Connacht in the famous "Cattle Raid of Cooley". Or Manannán mac Lir ("son of the sea"), a sea deity said to own a boat named Scuabtuinne ("Wave Sweeper"), a sea-borne chariot drawn by the horse Enbarr, a powerful sword named Fragarach ("The Answerer"), and a cloak of invisibility. And the Tuatha Dé Danann, the Tribe of the Gods. She would give an animated account of how they invaded Ireland, arriving in dark clouds; how the chanting of a magic spell over the silver arm crafted to replace the one lost in battle by their king, Nuada, grew back the flesh and restored his appendage. How, in a second battle, Nuada was killed by the poisonous eye of the Fomorian, Balor. And, how during a third battle, fought against a subsequent wave of invaders, the Milesians, three sister goddesses of the Tuatha Dé Danann, Ériu, Banba and Fodla, asked the Milesians that the island be named after them. Ultimately it was Ériu who gave her name to Ireland. Ériu, which became Éire...and eventually Erin. Ériu who also gave her name to me, a story, that had she known, I am certain my Granny would have loved to tell.

Life was hard for Granny, as surely it was for all the women of her time. She worked hard, back bent and hands stained with the soil of the potato field, stopping only to nurse a wee babe, some of whom would not live long enough to wean, and long after the last of the keeners had stopped their mournful wails, she would tell those sad tales, too. Tales of hunger, of sickness. She would gather with other women under the grey of an Irish sky, heat water over a fire on the rocky ground to add to wooden half barrels and woolen blankets, and with bare feet, stomp the dirt and wash the sickness out of them as she told her stories of sorrow and lost babies.

She would, eventually, tell the tale of how the potato crops failed and the Great Hunger descended upon Ireland. How family and neighbors died of starvation and disease. How she, her husband, and sons, left their beloved Ireland, and all they knew, to travel aboard a coffin ship to Canada, and down the St. Lawrence River to New York. How her family eventually made their way to Wisconsin, and then Iowa and Minnesota, though she, herself would not live that long. Or, perhaps, those stories would not be told.

You see, I never met my Irish Granny. She was born about 1800, the grandmother of my grandmother's grandmother. She died more than 100 years before I was even born. No one I have ever known had ever met her, no one I have ever known even knew her name, and the story of the storyteller, the story of Julia Leonard Maher, Síle O'Leannain O'Meachair, has been lost to the blowing winds of time. Was she actually a seanchaí? I will never know. There are very, very few records of her existence, and certainly none that would describe who she was. All that I will ever know about her is the bone-knowing that comes when the story line is in the bloodline. But, it all makes for a good story. So, perhaps she was, after all, and she passed that down to me.

02/25/2016

The moon was nearly swelled to her fullest, illumed and gauzy behind the clouded veil of the night sky, and I was having trouble sleeping. I tossed and turned and flitted from one dream beginning, to another, unable to go deep into any. This seemed to go on and on, the moon glow toying with and teasing me, until, at last, sleep came, and with it a dream. It was a powerful night vision of burning red Dogwood.

I saw myself walking through what remained of the snow stretching across a great prairie. Dry, golden grasses that once had stood tall and proud against the expansive horizon, now bowed, embodying the dying light of winter, as though searching the thawing ground for the new shoots that would rise in their place, that would succeed them in their summer reign. I walked through them, hands outstretched to communicate with them by the whisper of touch as I went. I made my way toward a snaking stand of thin trees and the tightly knit, bare branches, of wild bush and shrub. They concealed a twisting dry stream bed, stone strewn and with scattered layers of pocked ice remnants. I searched for the easiest way to climb down the steep bank, and made my way. The thorns of raspberry canes grabbed at my coat and threatened to trip me, while loose rocks and mud slipped beneath my boots. At last I was standing where the water would normally be rushing, quick and frothy, and wended my way down the dry bed to where I knew it would eventually meet the river bottoms below.

I was scrambling, the going was rough. I saw myself intently searching for a way through the myriad stones beneath my feet, to keep from twisting an ankle, and narrowly avoiding the branches that poked at my eyes, and caught on my hair. Occasionally I would come upon a shelf of ice, and I would have to carefully step on it, one foot at a time, to break through it's thin layer and through the half foot of air underneath, before my boot would find footing on the rocks below. Tricky. I squeezed around massive boulders that left little room between them and the high, steep banks; climbed over deadfall that littered the floor of the bed, trying to trap my legs; and ducked under branches that appeared out of nowhere. But I went on, feeling out of breath and exhilarated. Moving with a purpose that was unknown to me.

After rounding a bend, a cardinal, perched on an exposed root halfway up the bank, caught my eye. Its bold color stood in high contrast to the muted tones of the February landscape. As I got closer it lifted in flight, flew a short distance, and alighted on another root, a little farther down. This happened several times until at last it flew around a turn. When I, too, made the corner, I saw a man standing on a low part of the embankment. He was surrounded by a thicket of bright red dogwood - red osier dogwood - that seemed to leap up around him like flames. In his hands he held a bundle of their branches, cut into lengths and tied with twine, which he held out to me. I had to look down as the stones, uneven and loose where I scrambled, shifted, and when I looked back up, the man was gone. The flames of dogwood remained, and so did the bundle, lying on the creek bed before me.

When I awoke from this dream, I knew what I was to do. Shortly after, I was walking across a prairie I hadn't been to since the summer before, dog racing to and fro around me, en route to a creek I remembered. And, it was dry. I climbed down and began retracing my dream steps. This time, I knew my purpose. My task was to harvest the bright, flaming wands of dogwood.

Red Osier Dogwood (Cornus sericea, synonymous with C. stolonifera) also goes by the names Red Willow, Redstem Dogwood, Redtwig Dogwood, Red-Rood, American Dogwood, Creek Dogwood, and Western Dogwood. It is a medium sized deciduous shrub that, in the wild, often forms dense thickets in wooded or open areas of damp soil, favoring creek-sides, river banks, and lake shores. The summer leaves are dark green, transitioning to shades of bright red and purple, when Autumn comes to call. Lovely, small white flowers bloom all summer, and it produces pretty white berries, that while edible, are sour and bitter and nearly unpalatable to most humans. However, they are remarkable for their wildlife value, eaten by cardinals, bluebirds, bobwhites, grouse, crows, woodpeckers, and bears. Deer, elk, moose, cottontails and snowshoe hares all eat the twigs. Inside those twigs is where the real magic of this Plant Being lies. In, and beneath, its stunning crimson bark.

The medicines of this ally seem boundless, and were used by Native American tribes to treat eye, lung, pregnancy related ailments, and pain. The Cree used the fruit to treat snow-blindness and the pith to heal cataracts. The Iroquois used the inner bark for hemorrhages, pain, headaches, chest congestion, sore throats, coughs and fevers. When smoked with tobacco it was used to treat lung sickness, and cleansed the blood and improved circulation when mixed with Chokecherry or Alder bark. Red Osier was used to prevent frequent pregnancies, by the Okanagan-Colville tribe, and an inner-bark poultice, when applied to a woman’s back and belly, was used to help “heal a woman’s insides”, after childbirth. When mixed with ash it was a reliable painkiller; and a decoction of the inner bark treated rashes, sores, diarrhea and poison ivy. However, its greatest renown is as a ceremonial smoke. Red Willow is known as an important, and perhaps principal, ingredient of "kinnikinnick", a smoking blend made from wild plants, and often mixed with tobacco.

But, the folklore! Believed to be efficacious in several forms and states, red osier dogwood was considered as "Magic Material", by Native American tribes. The Iroquois, in particular, have numerous magical beliefs about red willow. They employed it in their oral narratives to achieve any act that needed to be done immediately, or to change any condition that needed instant alteration. A red osier switch was a magic wand that could enlarge a table and make food appear, or transform a dog into a monster bear. In the hands of a hero, a red willow branch could change logs into giant men, lengthen one's legs in a fight, and animate a manikin helper. Scrapings of the red bark thrown into a pond would command the giant bloodsucker living there to rise to the surface. And, throughout Iroquois folklore, an arrow that never missed its mark was always made of red willow. In fact, the most frequent use of red willow was as weapons against supernatural enemies. Red osier dogwood was also burned and consumed for magical purposes. The smoke conferred great power. It made wizards fly, and was used to rise into the air in pursuit of witches trying to make a getaway. Consumed as a liquid was not only healing, but could also be used as an antidote to witchcraft.

In my own practice, I tie lengths of red willow branches into bundles, with knots for protection, and hang them around my home and property. I cut pieces, roughly 1-2in. long, that I save in a spell drawer. These I add to pouches, or burn in spell work. I use the thinner, more flexible branches to create dream catchers. And I have one perfectly powerful red osier branch that I use as a wand.

The day after I harvested this red willow the world woke up so beautifully, that I decided to go back to the prairie to take pictures. Less than 24 hours from when I had been scrambling deep in the earthen gouge of a dry bed, and now the stream was wildly flowing, foaming and feral, and filled nearly to the top of what had been a tall, steep bank. I laughed at the circumstances, and at my own mistake in forgetting my camera the day before. But, the dogwood had been calling too loudly for me to think of anything else. The dream had come to me in time, and I was thankful I had listened to its message. There is magic in that, too.

** I referred to a most wonderful reference for the superstition and folklore of Red Osier Dogwood in this writing, entitled, "The Eldest Medicine: Red Osier Dogwood in Iroquois Folklore and Mythology", by Anthony Wonderley, found at:

02/04/2016

There is a forgotten path in the middle of a ravine, where the hills rise upward and the creek runs downward,and a little house lies in between.The roots from the trees grow down to the house,the stones from the creek roll toward it, and summoning them all ever forward it seems,lives a witch, there, though most don't know it.

If you should enter this house,and you would want to, just as the roots, and stones, and the one-eyed fox do,just as the owl, and the serpent, and the wolf-spider try to,you would find yourself standing in a poem.See, the conjurer chants the words of an old rhyming spell,words you won't understand, which is probably just as well,for you would be ever-changed if you could decipher them.

Imagine it, then, this small house with many rooms,filled with old sacred books, powder jars and twiggy birch brooms.Where spiraling hazel wands, and green herbal potions,are just waiting for the cunning woman to put them into motion.

There's an old phone on the wall that's hooked up to nothing,but the spirits call often, so it's connected to something.She doesn't speak into it with a voice of her own,but with the croak of a toad and a coyote jawbone.There are masks on the wall, and an obsidian ball,that she uses at night for scrying.A mortar and pestle sit high on a shelf,next to charms, bells, and herb bundles drying.

If a curse or hex are what you need, she will certainly know it.If it is bone-knowing you desire, she will be able to throw it.If foretelling the future is what you seek, she has the cards and will read it.If healing powers are what you need, she will have just the right weed for it.If it's cord or knot-work that you require, she is the one who can bind it.For, if it is magic that you are looking for,it is in this house you will find it.

So, should you find yourself at the nighttime crossroads,somewhere just beyond the thick growing hedgerows,in the place where path, hills and creek meet,there will soon be a spae-wife for you to greet, just past rabbit den and nest of grouse,you will knock upon the door of the old Witch House.

02/02/2016

There is a story of a baby born to Dubhtach, the Irish chieftain of Leinster, and a slave woman. Disappointed that the baby was not a son, the mother was sold to another chieftain, and the baby girl was given to a Druid to be raised. The girl was named Brigid, after the mother-goddess Brid. But, this was no ordinary girl named after a powerful goddess. It was told she had powers of her own. That the house she was born in burst into flames when she left it. In fact, flame and fire seemed a regular occurrence around her. It is said that when Brigid converted to Christianity, and took her vows as a nun, a flame appeared above her head...

I looked out across the the river valley, and closed my eyes, face bathed in the warmth and glow of bright sunshine. The fire of that light travelled from my crown to my belly, and settled there, contentedly. The sky above me stretched eternally into a cerulean dome, and all around me the snow sparkled and shimmered like diamond dust. The trees stood, roots running deep and branches filled with songbirds, all singing the story of the blizzard that would come our way the next day, riding through the valley on the back of the Cailleach. But, when I opened my eyes, and continued walking, it was Brigid who took my hand. Today was her day, after all.

As we walked through the shining silver woods, and along the river whose surface glistened like clear quartz, my eyes took in this vision of Winter at her height, this Midwinter Time. I remembered her to this point, so unique this year, as she dared to dance to her own playful rhythm. Mild, then feral. Snow-less, then deep drifts. Her movements at once slow and elegant, and then furious, until they reached this seasonal crescendo, this middle-point of her reign. I became lost in the snow and the gossipy chatter of an impending blizzard in birdspeak, until I felt a warmth grow in me, and around me. I saw Brigid, flames above her reaching down deep into her core, and felt the sun's fire warm my own head and center. And then I saw, clearly, the sun as the flame at the crown of the world, and knew there was a heat radiating in the very belly of the earth.

This is Imbolc. The harbinger of spring. The reminder of light and seeds held warm, deep in the earth, heralding the promise of life, and the fire that sustains us all. It is Brigid who takes her goddess finger and stirs the coals that simmer, there, bringing to life the embers that sizzle. It is Brigid who sings the serpents, the sleeping, and the burrowing ones to awaken, gently, slowly. It is Brigid who cradles the womb of the earth as though it is her own, acting as midwife to the many lives waiting to be birthed from their dormancy into green-being. Brigid holds the stones in her hands, blowing warm breath to stir their spirits from their slumber. Brigid is the one who stirs humans, too, into dreaming awake the season to come. So we honor her, this goddess, this saint.

And honor her we did! We celebrated Imbolc with festivity and reverence. Then we awoke to see that the birds were right. The fires of Brigid now burn bright in the belly of the earth, far beneath the blizzard of snow the Cailleach sent to remind us she is still the Queen. At least, until Spring, when Brigid steps into her power.

I hope you all had a very Blessed Imbolc / Lá Fhéile Bríde.

Altar for Brigid, with candles, heather, incense, and whiskey

Magical, sacred adornment for Imbolc. The triqueta, a shield knot, an eternity knot, a 5000 year old Irish bog oak ring, and a wee Claddagh ring, and a stone pendant brought home to me from Ireland, herself.

Offerings left at the four corners of our property, to keep the land wights happy, and for Brigid, should she wander by this way. A candle, to symbolize the return of light and the promise of warmth; boxty bread, made with love, along with maiden's milk for sustenance, and to symbolize the end of winter's lean days; also, strips of cloth for Brigid, herself, to bless, which will later be used for protection and healing.

Imbolc ends with the last of the boxty bread, and the beginning of the whiskey.

01/24/2016

Full Wolf Moon. Full Quiet Moon. Full Bear Hunting Moon. Full Winter Moon. Full Cold Moon. Full Ice Moon. Full Old Moon. Full Great Spirit Moon. Moon Of The Strong Cold. Moon After Yule. Moon Of The Terrible. Moon Of Frost On The Tipi. Moon When The Sun Is Scarce. Moon When The Snow Blows Like The Spirit Of The Wind.

The Moon was full last night, her belly round and resplendent in an ice blue gown. The sky, here, was veiled in cloud, but she shimmered and glowed beyond the layers. She, of the quiet winter cold. The stones were set out under her gaze, where, in the silence of the night, they consumed her essence, adding it to their own, absorbing Moon spirit flesh into their mineral beings. The Great Horned Owl sang to them from the woods, and they hummed back their power. They are ready, again, to do the good work.

For two days I consumed the essence of Scorpion, absorbing her calcined spirit flesh into my own animal being. I explored the dark and fire of this arachnid as its consciousness dissolved into my own. I began by meditating to free my mind; ingested a Sage (Salvia officinalis) flower essence to clear my spirit; and took a ritual bath with herbs to cleanse my body. When Scorpion told me she was ready to connect, I dropped her spagyric under my tongue, and let her scurry into the nooks and crannies of my physical body and consciousness. Consulting my Stone Council, Red Aragonite volunteered herself to me. She believed she could assist me in becoming a more attuned receiver to the spirit of the Scorpion, and she was right. She sat against my third eye and I felt a triangle form between her and my temples. A warm light seemed to fill this space, and was like the soft glow of a small fire in the dark of night, all else lost in pitch. I felt Scorpion coil in the hot ancient sands of my own inner Selket, the Egyptian Scorpion-goddess of magic, among other things, the Scorpio that is me. Dirt, dry bone, sand and stone. The power to create or eliminate. I lay with eyes closed, balanced between the comfort of shade, and the confronting truths of darkness. Soon, Panther Jasper asked to join, stone of shadow navigation and future sight; as did mysterious Astrophylite, which takes your hand into the heart of darkness and allows you to explore your cavernous places. And we went there, Stones, Scorpion, and I. Even in my night dreams, which were crystalline, there were vivid directives for creation, and absolute signs of what must be released, eliminated, from me. Clarity, discernment, and mindfulness of my own truths. The real magic.

When I awoke it was as if after the deepest, longest sleep, but I was able to recall every thought I had had. I read the signs and the meanings in all of the imagery and symbols. What was most clear was that Scorpion had not yet left, and was hiding under the rock ledges of my rib cage, still poised to provide insight and guidance. She told me to build a fire in the snow. And that is what I did.

At last, the Scorpion began to recede, the fire began to dwindle, the Moon began to wane, and I was left to carry the essence of all three, ever forward.

01/11/2016

I was lying on my back, in the heat of late summer. Long grass undulated around me in the tactile, humid breeze, across a vast field broken only by the rock, wood, and steel of a railroad track, just down a small hill from my feet. I was 9 years old, and all alone. It was the summer of 1980, and kids were more feral then, and roamed more freely than most kids these days. I sprawled, there, in the grass, smelling the earth, the creosote of the tracks, feeling the damp weight of the air around me. My eyes were closed and I melted in and out of a dreamlike euphoria, conscious only of the way my hair mingled with the prairie grass as it swayed and swirled. And then I heard a voice, as clear, and loud, and familiar as my own mother waking me for school, "Erin, look up!", and I did. Above me, three turkey buzzards circled slowly, wings outstretched, catching the air current and rising and falling gently with it. I should have been more surprised to see them, more alarmed that they circled me like suspected carrion, but I wasn't. I thought only of the voice. I knew the origin of it. It was the Spirit of the Wind that had spoken. And, I was not surprised, because it had spoken to me, before.

I was standing on a prairie remnant, next to a copse of trees that nearly concealed the river. It was summer, and hot, and the mosquitoes rose from the tall grass in great numbers, and the wood ticks reached out their arms to my legs from the same grass, all in an attempt to feed from me. But, I had nothing left to give. I was 38, and an empty shell. My beloved Dad had passed away less than six months before, suddenly, without warning, and I was hollow. I was hiking in this place with my dog, the dog I inherited at his death, still in deep mourning. I came here, to the river, the woods, the meadows of long grass, mullein, yarrow, and burdock, to feel closer to my Dad. But, I was not feeling him. I was feeling alone, and abandoned; tired and hot. The day was still. Dead still. The humidity was cloying, the heat rose in a shimmering haze along with the mosquitoes. I was wallowing deep in sadness and hot air. I screamed out, "I am so alone! I am so abandoned! How could you have left me? Where are you??", and suddenly, just like that, the air stirred. It whirled around, tossing the grass, my hair, and my tears around me. The air turned to breeze, turned to wind, the stalks of mullein bent and swayed, the leaves on the saplings waved riotously, and, while I had meant the words for my Dad, it was the Spirit of the Wind that said to me, "I am here. I have never left you", in the way I had long ago learned the Wind could, a non-verbal voice, a language most human ears are unaccustomed to hearing. A dialect I now knew well.

The Wind communicates, as do all the Spirits of the Natural World, in myriad ways. Their dialog is rich, and complex, and they are rarely ever silent. Most of us just do not understand what is being communicated. Many have forgotten the rhythms, intonations, and patterns of their speech. I speak to Nature Spirits. More importantly, they speak to me. And, it isn't just the Wind. My whole life I have been intimately involved with the Spirits of our Natural World. Elemental, Herbal, Animal, Mineral. I have forged relationships with these spirits through my acknowledgment, love, commitment, and offerings. I have introduced myself. I have asked for permission to consult them. I have had the patience to sit for hours waiting for them to connect, and have had to accept that sometimes they will not. I have had the determination to return, sometimes days upon end to show them I am committed. I have offered my services, and without fail done what was required of me, whether that was to clear away trash from their domains, put myself through the rigors of a physical endeavor, or leave offerings of food, libations, or tokens. Most importantly, I am a respectful guest in their presence. I give them the honor they are due, always. I do not profess to have any control or dominion over these spirits. Quite the opposite, I am humbled in their presence.

And, so, they communicate with me. Land Spirits. Tree Spirits. Weather Spirits. And, more. I have enjoyed the company of falling snow and bitter cold. I have had questions answered by the deep shudder of thunder clap and the flash of lightening strike. I have watched the clouds come together, swirl, separate, and come together again, and read the signs in them. I have heard the first drops of rain as they hit dry ground, and listened to what they told me of the storm to come. I have performed divination in the way the water current traveled around stones in the shallows of the creek. I have sat silent at the base of trees, young and old, legs tangled in their roots for hours, and they have honored me with their stories. I have interpreted meaning in the glow of embers and the lick of flames. I have stared up at the dark tent of stars, and understood more deeply my course, from what was but their memories. And, when I have cried out for comfort, the wind has answered.

Perhaps you do not believe me. It would be hard to do if you have never heard the wind call your name, or had a tree whistle you over, or have never been granted access to secret groves by land spirits who are leery of humans. Maybe if I were to give you detailed specifics it would be easier for you. But, for that I would need the permission of the spirits. That is part of our bargain. And, I can assuredly tell you, for them to oblige , you would already need to believe.

** All of the beautiful illustrations are the work of the enchanting Liiga Klavina.

Unless otherwise noted, all original writing, drawings, and photography are copyrighted and property of Erin Gergen Halls, and are not to be cited, reproduced, or used elsewhere without written permission from the artist. Thank you.